


Thought and Memory

by Fiachra



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apart from the obvious, Asgard (mention only), Crows, Fantasy, Gen, Gods, I suppose, I'm pretty sure this has never been done before, John is a Good Friend, Legends, Magic, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mythology - Freeform, No major canon divergences, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Odin (mention only), Original non-human character (minor), Raven!Mycroft, Raven!Sherlock, Ravens, Shapeshifting, Supernatural Elements, The idea came to me at two in the morning and I just rolled with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4906768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiachra/pseuds/Fiachra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many people know of Huginn and Muninn, Odin's ravens. They know of them as advisers, observers of Midgard, familiars. What these people don't know is that they have other roles too: guardians of Britain, brother, government official, detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> As stated in the tags, this came to me in the early hours of the morning after I had been doing a bit of thinking about Philip Pullman's daemons, ravens and Norse mythology. I know this is a pretty random idea but I hope you enjoy it. Constructive feedback would be greatly appreciated, as though not the first fanfiction I've written, this is the first to find its way to a public platform.

The raven soared over the streets of London, black as the sky above him. Below him lights glinted and flickered like the flaming torches of old, each one representative of a life, a person, completely unaware of the bird passing overhead who had seen so much. Of course, who would believe they were right if they inadvertently correctly guessed this bird’s identity, and he certainly wasn’t going to inform them.  
Banking into the wind, the raven sailed above the Thames, following the course of its inky waters to Tower Hill and the ancient structure that gave it its name. Although it wasn’t yet as ancient as him. The White Tower was dark now, it’s usual population of swarming tourists gone for the night. The raven alighted on the battlements in a flurry of feathers and then stood tall as a young, dark haired man.  


Sherlock Holmes stood still and watchful, curls and coat dancing slightly in the wind, eyes tracking the progress of a small speck nearly invisible in the gloom growing steadily larger. A second, larger raven landed next to him.  
“You’re getting slow, Muninn.” Sherlock said, turning to face the man now standing next to him. “Getting too heavy to fly?” The man, Mycroft, delicately brushed down his suit and gave him a long look.  
“Charming as ever.”  
They started to walk along the deserted battlements. “Is it not a bit cliché, meeting here all the time?” Sherlock asked, gesturing towards the famous white tower and the green where he had seen many a disgraced court official breathe their last.  
“I would say traditional, appropriate. “  
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. They stopped and looked out at Tower Bridge, shining brighter during the night than it ever did during the day, and still thronged with traffic.

“Why are we here Mycroft?” Sherlock said finally. “We haven’t met like this in months.”  
“Is it a crime to want to see my brother?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock snorted.  
“What do you want me to do?”  
“Nothing.”  
Sherlock looked surprised.  
“It’s more of a question of whether you want to do it.”  
Sherlock, curiosity roused despite himself, waited.  
“I was wondering if you are going to tell John about us.”  
Sherlock laughed harshly, a raven’s caw seeming to underlie it.  
“That’s what you asked me here for?” He turned as if to fly into the night.  
“Huginn.” “It’s not what you think.” Sherlock interrupted, turning to face his brother.  
“I know that.” Mycroft went on patiently. “But do you not think that he would want to know? That he would prefer if you told him rather than he find out accidentally?”  
“How on Earth would he possibly figure it out?”  
“He may not be as observant as you, but he will notice when you don’t show any signs of ageing, for a start.”  
“I don’t have to think about that now.” Sherlock said quietly.  
“But you will, unless you want to drive him away before you do.” Mycroft said firmly, then went more gently “You’re happier than I’ve seen you in a long time, and it would be a shame if you squandered that because you couldn’t bear to tell that when you disappear without warning it’s because the wind is singing to you, and not for other, more dubious, reasons.”  
Sherlock said nothing, still facing away from Mycroft.  


“We used to fly together all the time,” Mycroft said somewhat regretfully, breaking the silence. Sherlock was surprised, Mycroft was hardly ever nostalgic about anything. “Do you remember?”  
Sherlock nodded. “I do.”  
Mycroft looked his little brother up and down, as if he wanted to commit Sherlock’s appearance to memory. “Goodnight Sherlock.” With that, Mycroft took to the air again, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts and hundreds of years of history.


	2. Windsong

Days turned into weeks, during which Sherlock continuously turned his talk with Mycroft over in his head, but he still couldn’t bring himself to tell John . It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him, it was that he had no clue of what was the best way to go about it. Matters came to a head one day two months later when John came home to see a large rook perched brazenly on the back of his chair.  
“Jesus Sherlock there’s a bird in the flat!”  
John could have sworn that the rook gave him a dirty look before cawing in a way that somehow sounded offensive. Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, test tube in hand.  
“So?”  
_“So?”_ John said incredulously. “Go on, shoo!” He flapped his hands rather uselessly as the rook refused to move.  
“She won’t leave if you do that John.”  
John turned crossed to Sherlock, who was lounging against the door frame, watching in amusement.  
“You do it then, O great bird whisperer.” John said sarcastically, making an exaggerated show of stepping aside. Sherlock put down the test tube and held out his arm. John’s jaw dropped as the rook took off and alighted there. Sherlock took her to the window, gave her a gentle push and shut the window after her as she soared gracefully away. He then seemed to notice John’s expression for the first time. “What?”  
“How did you do that?”  
“Do what?”  
John stared. “That! Getting it to sit on your arm!”  
“She, John, not ‘it’.”  
John folded his arms. “How did you know it was a she? Is she a pet or something?” Was that a flicker of apprehension in Sherlock’s eyes? Before he could be sure, it had vanished. “Well?”  
Sherlock shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.  
“I’m going out.” He announced, striding quickly towards the door.  
“Sherlock!”  
Sherlock ignored him and kept going. John swore softly and followed. “Look, I’m sorry if I touched a nerve or something but-“ John trailed off as he looked up and down the empty street. Sherlock was nowhere in sight. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Confused, John shivered in the cold December air and pulled his jacket around him. The darkening sky looked like it was bringing snow. With a stab of guilt, he realised Sherlock had only been wearing his shirt, he would be freezing. Resolving to apologise when he returned, John went back inside. 

*****

Sherlock circled aimlessly above, not knowing or caring where he was going. That had been close, far too close. Of course he had made the worse by leaving, but he had panicked. He still hadn’t thought of how to tell John about who he was. He cursed himself for his carelessness, how had he misjudged John’s arrival home from work, when he knew Morgrim was coming to speak to him? Morgrim hadn’t minded him checking his experiment, but it had distracted him from the sounds of John coming upstairs. And then he had obviously advertised that there was something even more unusual about Morgrim being in the flat than he should have by getting her to leave in the way he had. It was like he wanted to show John that there was something he was hiding. But he did want to tell him, didn’t he? He was so confused about what to do, he had never been close enough to anyone to tell them the truth. And now he was ashamed of himself, for making this far more complicated than it needed to be. With a shriek of frustration, he pumped his wings harder, increasing his speed.  
When he finally slowed down, feeling a lot calmer, he noticed for the first time the steadily worsening state of the weather. Night had fallen completely now and along with the rising wind icy cold, sleepy rain was falling faster and faster. Looking down, though it was hard to see with even his sharp eyes, he could see that he was above the outskirts of London.  
Immediately he turned back the way he had came, the rain falling harder with every wingbeat. Sherlock could feel the cold start to seep into him, having overcome his barrier of feathers. He had to get home now, if he took shelter somewhere he knew from experience that he would only get colder and more miserable. He had gotten too used to human comforts over the years, he hadn’t had to venture out on a night like this in ages.  
It was getting harder and harder to stick to his course in this wind, and by the time the blue glow of the London Eye came into view through the curtain of torrential rain he could have cried with relief. If ravens could cry of course, and if that was the sort of thing he would do in a crisis. He dropped lower, desperate to be warm and dry again, he could apologise to John and maybe then John would take pity on him and make him tea...  
WHAM  
In his lapse of concentration, a particularly vicious gust of wind slammed him against a window. Dazed, he managed to catch himself before gravity claimed him completely and somehow managed to stay aloft. Wobbling slightly, and with his whole left side throbbing painfully, he pushed on, fighting unconsciousness with every wingbeat.

*****

John, meanwhile, was pacing in the sitting room as rain hammered against the window panes. He had called Greg and Molly, neither of whom had seen Sherlock, and Mycroft wasn’t answering his phone. He was worried that something had happened. He hadn’t said this to Greg and Molly, and especially not to Mrs. Hudson, who had left for a Christmas party ages ago. Why worry them? But it was with great relief when he finally heard footsteps on the stairs.  
“Where the Hell have you-“ John stopped and stared, his mixed feelings of anger and relief vanishing in seconds. Sherlock stood in the doorway, soaked to the skin and trembling violently.  
“John..” He mumbled, before his knees buckled. John rushed forward and managed to catch him before he hit the floor.  
“Christ Sherlock, what happened?” John half dragged him to the couch and laid him as gently as he could on it.  
“Flying, rain, window.” Sherlock slurred deliriously. John frowned in concern.  
“You’re not high are you?”  
Sherlock looked up at him with unfocused eyes. “No...” he muttered before finally passing out. His long-suffering friend sighed as he went to fetch towels and a change of clothes.  
John soon found that getting Sherlock out of his wet clothes and into dry ones was nigh on impossible, given that Sherlock was completely out of it and about as much use as a chocolate kettle. Deciding to just remove his shoes, socks, trousers and shirt and wrap him in towels and blankets, John stopped when he uncovered his right ankle. Just above the bone encircling his leg was what looked like a tattoo in black ink. It was a thin band, about the width of his thumb, made up of complicated looking Celtic spirals. At least, that’s what John thought they were. They looped gracefully under and over each other, in a graceful, sinuous dance. Resolving to ask Sherlock about it later, John peeled the rest of his clothes off and gasped in shock. The majority of Sherlock’s left side was one huge bruise.  
John pressed lightly on his ribs, satisfying himself that they were not broken, and started to pull the towels and blankets back over him. Sherlock skin was cool to the touch, but his shivering wasn’t as intense as it had been. John started to get up when Sherlock started to mutter in his sleep.  
“Muninn, Muninn.”

John frowned in puzzlement and nearly fell over back in shock when the tattoo around Sherlock ankle started to glow blue. John watched in amazement as it glowed brightly for a few seconds before fading to black. Heart hammering, John covered his ankle and sank into the chair next to the couch.  
What was happening? None of this made sense. Sherlock trembled occasionally and muttered quietly as John watched him. John got to his feet as footsteps sounded on the stairs and hoped he didn’t look as relieved as he felt as Mycroft entered, leaning his saturated umbrella against the wall.  
“Mycroft, thank God, perhaps you can explain what’s going on.”  
Mycroft knelt at Sherlock side and felt his forehead gently before lifting the blankets to expose the bruising, exhaling softly.  
“His ribs are fine, but he was muttering about windows and...”  
“And?” Mycroft looked at John sharply. John took a deep breath.  
“His tattoo, on his ankle, it started glowing.”  
“Did he say anything beforehand?”  
“It sounded like nonsense, Moon-in or something. Look, Mycroft, what’s happening?”  
Mycroft took in John’s scared and worried face, his clenched fists.  
“He hasn’t told you yet then.”  
“Told me what?”  
Mycroft sighed. “I’ll let him tell you when he wakes up, for now be quiet and don’t interrupt.”  
Mycroft placed his hands on the worst of Sherlock bruising, closed his eyes and hummed quietly. John stood, transfixed, as the skin under Mycroft hands glowed blue, just as the tattoo had done. Mycroft’s hum rose and fell, John didn’t know how long he stood there, it could have been minutes or hours when Mycroft opened his eyes and stood, the low hum fading away.  
John’s eyes widened, the bruising had vanished.  
“He may be a bit stiff when he wakes, but otherwise he will be fine.” Mycroft picked up his umbrella. “Goodnight Dr. Watson.”  
John managed to garble a reply before resuming his seat, his mind buzzing with questions. 

When Sherlock awoke, morning had broken. Initially, he wondered why he was on the couch before everything came flooding back. He tried to sit up quickly only to stop with a groan as his muscles protested.  
“Hey, take it easy, alright?”  
John appeared suddenly at his side and helped him to sit up.  
“Thank you.”  
“Don’t mention it.”  
John pulled his chair around so he was facing Sherlock. “You had a fever last night, but it’s gone down, are you feeling okay?” At Sherlock’s nod, John pressed on. “Look, I know you’ve only just woken up, but I want answers. Your tattoo-“ Sherlock looked hurriedly at his foot “-started to glow last night, then Mycroft showed up and healed your bruises, so can you please tell me what’s going on?” Sherlock looked into John’s tired yet determined face and sighed.  
“This will be hard to believe, but it’s true, all of it. What have you guessed already?”  
“Sherlock, can we please not do this now? I haven’t a clue. But,” John amended, seeing the slight disappointment of being denied his opinion cross Sherlock’s face. “I would say, this sounds ridiculous, you and Mycroft can do some kind of magic.”  
“Good, can you specify?”  
“I don’t know, wait,” John sat up. “Am I right?”  
Sherlock nodded. “Yes, are you familiar with Norse mythology?” John blinked, disarmed.  
“Vaguely.”  
“Do you know who Odin is?”  
John gave him a tentative nod. “You’re not going to tell me you’re a god, are you?”  
“No, not exactly.”  
“Not exactly!?”  
“If you would let me finish...” Sherlock said in exasperation.  
“Sorry.”  
Sherlock gave him a look, the kind of warning look one receives if they continue talking at a formal event, one that said that ‘no more interruptions or else.’  
“As I was saying, Odin had, has, two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, who brought him news of what was going on in the world. They were advisers, of sorts.”  
Sherlock locked eyes with John. “John, my name isn’t Sherlock Holmes, at least it wasn’t the name I was given. I’m not even human. I’m Huginn, and Mycroft is Muninn.” Sherlock waited. Finally John said,  
“You’re a raven?”  
“Yes.”  
“But...” John gestured at Sherlock, “You look human.” To John’s immense relief, Sherlock didn’t point out how obvious or stupid that statement sounded.  
“You said Mycroft and I could do magic, one of the things we can do is take human form, so as to better learn what was happening in the world of men. Another is to heal, as you saw last night. John?”  
John was flabbergasted. “So the gods are real? The myths are real?”  
“I can only vouch for the Norse ones, but essentially, yes.”  
John sat back in his chair, and let out a shaky breath.  
“John?” Sherlock asked in concern. John ran his fingers through his hair.  
“I’m okay, it’s just a lot to take in.”  
“You’re being very calm about it.”  
“Did others not take it well?”  
“The thing is, you’re the first.”  
Silence. “Wow, I’m flattered.” John said eventually. Sherlock smiled.  
“If,” John swallowed “if you are Odin’s eyes and ears, how are you here, living your own life? Does, where do the gods live?”  
“Asgard.”  
“Does Asgard have wifi? Get all their news via Internet or something?”  
Sherlock chuckled and John grinned weakly.  
“No, at least I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. In the beginning, Mycroft and I flew around the world each day. You must understand,” he added to response to John’s amazed face “that this meant the Viking world, wherever the Nordic gods presided. Still with me?” At John’s nod Sherlock continued. “Once Vikings set their sights further afield, and when horizons began to expand, our world got bigger. As fast as we are, we couldn’t go everywhere or see all we needed to see, even with magic on our side. And at this stage, we both wanted to learn, not to just merely be messengers.  
“So, eventually, we devised a system in which each territory of interest would have its own group of ravens to carry messages and observations if needs be back to the gods. Mycroft and I eventually settled here, and we watch over Britain.”  
Mycroft’s mysterious government position now made a bit more sense to John. He must have decided that it was the best place to oversee things, while Sherlock took care of more specific and specialist issues.  
“So you’re the ‘Protectors of the Realm’ then?”  
“Don’t let Mycroft hear you say that, he’ll get more big-headed than he already is, but yes, that’s it essentially. Mycroft and I are still in charge of the other ravens, anything of importance is brought directly to us, so we can bring it to Odin’s attention.”

John frowned slightly. “I thought you didn’t want to be messengers anymore, that you wanted to be free.”  
“We are, our agreement was that we would be free to do as we liked as long as we returned when necessary.”  
“But that doesn’t happen often, does it? I haven’t noticed you disappearing that much, and not for long stretches of time.” John said.  
“I am very fast.” Sherlock said evenly “But you’re right, I don’t. The powers of the gods waxes and wanes John, they need belief, and the more they have, the stronger they are. Now, the myths sustain them, but they don’t have the influence or the strength they used to. As a result, what’s happening in the world isn’t as big of a concern as it used to be. And even if something catches their attention, Odin would scry first to see if he needs us to investigate.”  
John made a mental note to find out what ‘scrying’ was later and tried to pick a question from the swirling storm of them inside his head. Sherlock seemed to realise this and waited patiently. “So, if he can scry, how did you and Mycroft enter the picture?” John said.  
“When two ravens love each other very much...”  
John snorted, but in good humour. “Come on, seriously.”  
Sherlock looked a bit frustrated. “We don’t know.” The admission seemed to pain him. “We could never get a straight answer, Asgardians seem to have an obsession with convoluted language, even historians today are baffled by some of the texts. For example, the serpent that encircled the Earth was also described as a cat...”  
John, trying to reassure himself that Sherlock couldn’t possibly mean a real, physical giant snake, coughed to bring Sherlock’s wandering mind back to the conversation at hand.  
Sherlock gave himself a small shake and continued as if he hadn’t gotten off topic. “Mycroft and I have been described as extensions of Odin’s consciousness, familiars, enchanted ravens, the list goes on. The only thing I know for sure is that Mycroft is my brother.” Surprisingly, he said that without too much resentment.

“ _How_ can you not know that? Did you not hatch, or something?” Now that was a weird thought, Sherlock hatching from an egg.  
“Can you remember your birth?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. You accept that you’re human, I accept that I’m a raven, a supernaturally gifted one, otherwise I wouldn’t be here talking to you. Next.”  
John sighed. “What about the other ravens? Are they, whatever you are?” Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t take that as an insult, John really wasn’t sure what could offend him now.  
“They’re ordinary ravens, you’ve heard of the British flock, my homeless network aren’t the only eyes and ears I have in this city.” Sherlock grinned as realisation dawned on John’s face.  
“The Tower ravens!”  
Sherlock bobbed his head in a very bird-like manner. “It was Mycroft who encouraged them to stay there. It wasn’t too difficult, ravens already had a reputation of being Britain’s sacred birds, once he got King James to give them his royal protection people were very unwilling to harm them, they thought it was bad luck.”  
John gave him a funny look. “Sherlock, how old are you?”  
Sherlock looked down and rolled the blanket between his fingers. “I’m seven minutes younger than Mycroft, I do know that about my origins.”  
“Sherlock...” John said in exasperation.  
“I’m at least two thousand years old,” he said after some deliberation. “is that going to be a problem?”  
John realised he was staring and shook his head. “No, it’s not.”  
Sherlock looked doubtful.  
“It’s not, honestly.” 

Sherlock looked up suddenly. Of all the things he thought John would take exception to, that was top of the list. “You’re completely fine with this, that I’m not human at all?”  
“Of course I am,” John said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could, “it will probably take me a while to get my head around it completely, but it’s fine.”  
Sherlock positively beamed. “Thank you.”  
“So what actually happened last night?” John said, wanting to steer the conversation away from mortality. “You were muttering something about a window?”  
Sherlock shifted from side to side and looked mortified. “I hit a window.” he mumbled.  
John couldn’t help, he burst out laughing. “Sherlock...Holmes...flew into a window!” John howled, clutching his sides.  
“I didn’t fly into it, I was blown into it!” Sherlock huffed.  
John wiped his eyes and straightened up, trying and failing to look serious. “Sorry. That bruising looked painful.” With the memory of Sherlock’s battered torso he managed to sober up.  
“It was.” Sherlock said grumpily. Then his stomach growled. John stood.  
“I’ll make you breakfast as an apology.”  
Sherlock stood, wincing. He and Mycroft were good at healing, but for all their efforts their muscles didn’t forget the pain quite so quickly if the injury had been extensive. He wrapped a blanket around himself and followed John into the kitchen.  
“I’ll have you know,” he said haughtily “that I am usually an excellent flyer.”  
John smiled as he turned the kettle on. “I don’t doubt you mate, can I see you fly sometime?”  
“Of course.”  
“Thanks.”  
As they were waiting for the water to boil and their toast, John brought up the tattoo. “It’s a marker,” Sherlock said “a sigil almost, to show who we are. The other ravens have a simpler version of it. It glows when we call for or receive summons from someone.”  
“You called Mycroft.” John realised.  
“Yes, I probably wouldn’t have if I had been completely lucid, but I would have had to heal myself this morning otherwise.” Sherlock shrugged pragmatically.  
“Do the spirals mean anything?”  
Sherlock sighed, bemoaning John’s lack of culture. “It’s a style of Scandinavian interlace, called Urnes style. Runes spelling my name are also incorporated into the design.”  
“Actually, that’s something I was meaning to ask.” John handed Sherlock tea and toast before sitting down with his own across the table from him. “Would you prefer if I called you Huginn or Sherlock from now on?”  
Sherlock sat there looking contemplative. “Sherlock,” he said eventually “I’ve gotten rather fond of it.”  
“Alright, if you’re sure.” John said buttering another piece of toast.  
“I am.”  
“What does it mean?”  
“Huginn?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Thought. Muninn means Memory. Some scholars translate them as Mind or Desire but ‘thought’ and ‘memory’ are the most common.”  
“It suits you.” John said. “Very appropriate.”  
Sherlock grinned and ate more toast.  
“Which translation is the right one?” John asked, nursing his mug.  
“Words have many meanings,” Sherlock replied “and all of them can be right. And when applied to concepts like the mind, which is fluid and ever changing, it makes sense that the words describing it can be so too.”  
“That’s pretty deep.”  
Sherlock laughed. “I’m a raven, a bird that symbolises wit and creativity.”  
“And also death, murder and trickery. Sounds just like you.” John said sarcastically. Sherlock shrugged in a way that said plainly “oh well, what can you do?” 

“Ravens have also been a symbol of the supernatural and knowledge, not just in Celtic or Norse mythology, but in that of the Native Americans too.” He added sagely before delicately sipping his tea. John leaned back in his chair and gazed at Sherlock, who met his eyes steadily over the rim of his mug. “What is it?”  
John shook his head slowly. “I just can’t believe that Sherlock Holmes, of all people, is talking seriously about magic and myth. That my flatmate is a bird. Which isn’t an issue.” He added hurriedly in case Sherlock misconstrued his meaning.  
From his relaxed expression, Sherlock hadn’t. “I can imagine. I had to get used to the idea of living with a human.” He twisted his features into an exaggerated grimace, causing John to smile.  
“And the fact that I’m old enough to be your great times sixty-six, give or take a few generations, grandfather.”  
John opened his mouth, closed it and stood. “Okay,” he said “that’s strange.” Then he stopped, seemingly thunderstruck. “You, emm, didn’t...”  
“Didn’t what?”  
“Sleep with anyone that could be related to me?” John blurted, face turning red as he put his plate in the sink.  
“No. Though Mycroft did tell me that you remind him of someone he knew a hundred years ago... I’m joking, I’m joking.” Sherlock backtracked furiously when John nearly dropped his mug.

“Can I...see?” John asked shyly when Sherlock had showered, changed and re-appeared in the sitting room.  
“Me as a raven?”  
“If that’s alright.”  
“It’s fine.” The transformation was smooth and seamless. Sherlock shrunk, glossy black feathers covered his skin and replaced his clothes and hair, his nose and mouth lengthened into a powerful beak and his arms and hands sprouted flight feathers and extended into wings. Within seconds a raven stood in Sherlock’s place. John sank into Sherlock’s chair. It was one thing to know that one’s flatmate was a supernatural being, quite another to see them demonstrate it. John was discovering that he wasn’t quite as prepared as he thought he was.  
The raven-Sherlock-flew onto the arm of John’s chair. “John, I know this is unusual for you, but that is no excuse to take my chair.”  
John, if possible, felt even more shocked. “You can talk!”  
Sherlock tossed his head, which seemed to be the corvid equivalent of an eye roll. “Of course I can talk, what good would we have been to Odin if we couldn’t?” It was somehow reassuring that Sherlock was still himself even when covered with feathers. He flapped to the arm of his chair, causing John to jump. As they regarded each other, John noticed that Sherlock’s eyes were still the same ever-changing blue they always were. They contrasted strongly with his black face.  
“You look odd from this angle.” Sherlock remarked.  
John gave him his best ‘you don’t say?’ face. “I hate to break this to you, but from my perspective, you look particularly odd.”  
“This is why perspective is important John.”  
John turned as Sherlock hopped onto the back of his chair and then onto the other arm. After asking (read: commanding.) John to hold out his arm, Sherlock perched there as John raised him slowly to his eye level.  
“You’re so light!”  
“Hollow bones.”  
“And not eating enough.” John added under his breath, Sherlock making a derisive noise in the back of his throat, which John promptly ignored. “Is that your tattoo?” Sherlock lifted his scaly leg so John could see the tattoo in miniature. Sherlock suddenly flew to John’s right shoulder.  
“What are you doing?”  
Sherlock shrugged, a movement done more so with his wings rather than his shoulders. “Can you stand up please?”  
Wondering when exactly did he take orders from a crow, even if it was Sherlock, John stood. Sherlock swayed a little and tightened his grip, his talons clutching John’s shoulder firmly but not painfully so. He looked around, then said, “John?”  
“Hmm?”  
“You’re short.”  
“Bit rich coming from you isn’t it?” John retorted.  
“I’m usually taller than you.”  
“Yes, but since this is your true body, I think I win.”  
“My body is just transport.” Sherlock said sulkily. “I can fly higher than you.” He added hopefully.  
“I can’t fly at all, so that doesn’t count.”  
“It was worth a try.”  
John grinned and turned to look at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. To his pleasant surprise, the image of himself and raven-Sherlock looked just as normal and natural as it did when he caught sight of their reflections when Sherlock was human.  
“See,” Sherlock said softly into his ear. “The man you know as Sherlock and the raven the legends know as Huginn are one and the same.”  
“Yeah,” John said distractedly, watching how Sherlock’s feathers had a blue and purple sheen in the light. “Yeah, you are.” He turned to grin at Sherlock and although Sherlock shouldn’t have been able to, John swore he saw him return it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, I know. Fun science fact: ravens with blue eyes actually _do_ exist. Check 'em out on Google, they're pretty cool.


	3. The Storytelling of Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to put a disclaimer in the first chapter. Oops. Anyway, *takes deep breath* I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters you recognise. Although, does anyone own Huginn and Muninn? Since myths are part of our public conscience I'm pretty sure they belong to everyone and no-one. But that's a discussion for another time....

Many people thought John had seen it all. It was a theme that was brought up quite often when they heard that he had been in the army and had been to Afghanistan, but even more so once they heard he lived with Sherlock Holmes. While John had never agreed with them completely, he had seen their point. However, coming down to breakfast to see Sherlock talking quietly to a crow sitting on his knee still had the power to make him do a double take and briefly consider asking any divine being that was in existence (and according to Sherlock there were several) just what had he done to deserve this strangeness. Not that he would have changed it for the world.

“John, you remember Morgrim.”  
“Ahh...”  
Sherlock sighed. “You tried to ‘shoo’ her out of the flat.”  
“Oh, yeah.” John sat at his desk, feeling oddly that it would be rude to leave, and judging from the way they were staring at him, he thought he was right. The rook, Morgrim, let out a harsh squawk.  
“Introduce yourself to her.”  
John looked at him incredulously. _“Introduce myself?_ To a _crow?_ ”  
Morgrim half spread her wings and cawed crossly. “Language.” Sherlock admonished gently before addressing John. “She’s a rook, and greatly values politeness. She also wants to remind you that I’m part of the crow family too.”  
Oh. He hasn’t thought of it like that.  
John awkwardly cleared his throat and looked at the two of them, who both seemed to be wearing identical expressions of disapproval, although milder in Sherlock’s case.  
“I’m sorry,” John said, addressing Morgrim, “my name is John Watson, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He looked quickly over at Sherlock, who nodded in approval. Morgrim spoke, not that it sounded like it to John, which Sherlock translated.  
“She introduces herself as Morgrim of Whitehall and is glad to make your acquaintance. She accepts your apology because she understands that this is new to you.”  
John thanked her, and she dipped her head in acknowledgement. “So... are you friends, or...”  
“Technically an informant, but also a friend.” Sherlock said. “Some of the Tower ravens can’t fly far because their wings are clipped”, His nose wrinkled in disdain, “so they use other crows to help them gather information, Morgrim’s rookery has had close ties with them for generations, and by extension with me.” Sherlock rubbed the back of her neck fondly, causing her to gurgle with pleasure.  
“So the ravens sort everything they hear and decide if it’s important.” John gathered.  
“Exactly, but I often like to hear things directly, so Morgrim comes to me as soon as she hears anything. Mycroft too.” 

It was instances like this that had John questioning how he hadn’t noticed anything odd before. But, as Sherlock said, he had had years to hone his ability of playing human.  
“Does it feel odd, becoming human?” John had asked while Sherlock perched on his chair preening his feathers. Now that John knew, he often spent time in his raven form.  
“I only become human in the superficial sense of the word, in body only.”  
“You know what I mean.”  
“Do I?” said Sherlock cheekily but he continued before John could tell him off for being a smartarse. “It doesn’t anymore. In the beginning it did.” He went back to his preening before looking up again. “Clothes were very strange, it took me a while to think of changing what was covering my body according to my needs as anything other than bizarre.”  
John, reliving a very memorable trip to Buckingham Palace, managed to swallow a sarcastic comment on how Sherlock still found clothes and their proper usage bizarre.  
John was startled out of his reverie when Sherlock stood, human again, and studied his hands before picking up his violin. “I like having hands though, you lot take them for granted so often.”

John soon found himself noticing little things, apart from the obvious, that he wondered were only because he knew the truth about Sherlock’s nature or if Sherlock was letting his guard down more around him. His gestures seemed to mimic that of a bird, whether he was perching on a chair, hopping around a crime scene or moving his head and shoulders. John found that on occasion when Sherlock laughed he was reminded of a raven’s caw and he had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock was so fond of his coat because it reminded him of his wings.  
As Mycroft predicted, Sherlock did disappear for hours on end when he urge to fly became so intense that it was a struggle to prevent his arms from sprouting flight feathers and the sky seemed to call to him whenever he felt the wind on his face, but now he could let John accompany him if he wanted.  
John loved watching Sherlock fly. It was a privilege, to see Sherlock in his natural form, and a joy to see him perform his various acrobatic antics. This often included, to John’s poorly veiled amusement, dive-bombing pigeons and pranking unsuspecting bystanders.  
“You are so immature, do you know that?” John said in between giggles. They were in the park, and Sherlock had amused himself by stealing various objects from random passers-by and seeing how long it took for them to notice before stealthily replacing them.  
“I’m related to magpies, what do you expect?” Sherlock said as he settled onto John’s shoulder, which was rapidly becoming his favourite perch. John snorted with laughter, causing a few walkers to give the short man with a large raven on his shoulder concerned looks. John had thought appearing in public with a raven would cause a stir, but it hadn’t. It was a good thing no one but him knew who the raven was, he thought idly as he crunched his way through the frosty grass, he could only imagine what people would say if they knew Sherlock spent a lot of his time on John’s shoulder.  
Sherlock, who had been quiet, suddenly spoke. “Mycroft.”  
John looked up to see another raven perched on a branch above them, larger and slightly bulkier than Sherlock, his black plumage in stark contrast to the frost-laden branch he sat on.  
“Oh,” said John “that’s why Mycroft’s nose is so beaky.”  
Sherlock crackled in approval, his breath steaming in the crisp air while Mycroft regarded them with his dark eyes wearily and with disapproval. “I’m sorry to interrupt your game,” he said snootily “but Sherlock and I have to go to Asgard.”  
Sherlock fell silent and left John’s shoulder to join Mycroft.  
“I guess I’ll see you later then.” John said slightly awkwardly. Sherlock nodded before following his brother into the sky, leaving John alone in the icy park.

*****

It was odd really, John thought as he walked home, that after all he had discovered he still found the idea of gods hard to get used to. It was easy to forget, as he had just done, that Sherlock and Mycroft had duties far beyond what they did on Earth. Though that made it sound like they were leaving the planet entirely, which they weren’t, were they?  
John sighed as he unlocked the door and slowly tramped up the stairs. Sherlock didn’t speak much about Asgard or its inhabitants, deflecting John’s questions with statements like “It’s all online or in books John!” or “It doesn’t change much.” He would, if he was in a good mood, tell John about some of the things he had seen, but was quick to clam up if John showed any indication that he was amazed at how long ago it was. John forgot, quite often, that Sherlock was far, far older than him. An easy thing to do, when Sherlock looked (and acted on occasion) younger than John.  
But every now and then he would say something unintentionally or completely randomly that would make John realise just how, well, _ancient_ he was.  
_“I’ve been in a hansom cab that was faster than this one.”_  
_“I can’t believe I wasn’t in London in 1888, it would have been far more interesting, murder wise, than today.”_  
_“Honestly, how do you humans learn anything with such short lifespans?”_  
John sat and looked around their flat, at everything they had collected over their time together as flatmates. Sherlock’s skull caught his attention. Sherlock had never said where he had gotten it. And now that John thought about it, he might not have got it in this century at all.  
_“Friend of mine, when I say friend...”_  
Would that be his fate too? Would Sherlock carry his skull around when he eventually died? Sherlock had seen kingdoms, families, people, rise and fall and turn to dust, John’s life mustn’t seem very long in comparison. John shut his eyes, trying to push the image of Sherlock, as youthful looking as he was now, sitting alone sixty years from now.  
He was still sitting there when Sherlock came in a few hours later.  
“John?”  
“Sorry?” John gave himself a shake and looked up, trying to look like he hadn’t been pondering death for the last few hours. Sherlock gave him a slightly odd look but to John’s relief didn’t say anything.  
“I got you this.”  
Sherlock held out a small metal charm on a leather tong and John took it. It looked like the head of a hammer, covered with similar interlace designs to the tattoo on Sherlock’s ankle.  
“It’s Thor’s hammer, not the real one obviously, but it used to be a popular amulet that was said to bring luck and protection. I thought you might like it.”  
John wordlessly slipped it around his neck, unable to tell if it was warm due to being in Sherlock’s pocket or because it was giving off its own heat. He cleared his throat slightly. “Thank you.”  
Sherlock gave him another funny look but didn’t say a word, leaving John to his turbulent thoughts.

*****

It was another few days later when John, unable to bring it up delicately, blurted out “Why don’t you tell me about your past, or Asgard?”  
Sherlock, who had up until this point been leaning casually against a wall (they were waiting for a suspect to show himself) said uncertainly “I do.”  
“No, you tell me snippets and then you act like you shouldn’t have told me.”  
Sherlock gave him a searching look and sighed heavily, case seemingly forgotten. “John, you’ve taken all this very well, but I know that you sometimes forget what I am. I do too on occasion, this is my life now, but- “He paused “you’re amazed at everything I tell you, that I’ve seen it, remember it. It frequently reminds me that I’m a talking raven masquerading as a man. I act human, I look human, but I’m not. I belong to a different realm entirely.”  
“That doesn’t bother me-" John began, but Sherlock put up his hand to stop him.  
“That may not, but my age does. Your age in comparison to mine does.” John hated the fact that he thought he heard some sadness in Sherlock’s voice.  
“It just, I just realised...” _That in your eyes anyway, I’m going to be gone in the blink of an eye._  
Sherlock nodded soberly. “I know.” He said quietly. They stood in silence for a while, the night noises of London filling the air.  
“I’ve seen so much,” Sherlock said eventually “more than you can imagine. Some things that I want to forget, but I can’t, as someone should remember them.” His eyes briefly took on a haunted look. “The Black Death, the fire of 1666, both World Wars. Beautiful things too. The Renaissance, the Aurora.” He shook his head. “How can you understand?”  
“I’ve seen war too.”  
“You’ve seen one. I’ve seen hundreds. You seem so young to me John, everyone here does. By immortal reckoning, you’re a child, which I know you’re not. But sometimes I forget, which is why I hold back. And I didn’t want to alienate you, I know I must seem incomprehensively old to you. It’s habit too, I could never tell anyone about this. But, you’re the best, perhaps the only friend, I’ve ever had and I should start trusting you more.”  
John didn’t know what to say. Finally he settled on “I just want you to know that I’ll be here for as long as you want me, be it next week or the rest of my life.” And judging from Sherlock’s smile, as much of it as he could see in the dim light, he had appreciated what John meant.

As they ran together after the suspect later on through the darkened streets of the city Sherlock had adopted years ago as his, adrenaline coursing through his veins, John felt some of his fears ebb away. He didn’t have eternity, but so what. As Sherlock leapt into the air, wings beating and cawing at John to hurry up, John found that he didn’t care about the future. As man and raven chased their quarry through London’s winding alleys, all that mattered was the here and now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Ornithology Fact #2: One of the collective nouns for a group of ravens is a "storytelling". See what I did there?  
> Also, 1888 was the year of the Whitechapel murders, carried out by Jack the Ripper.


	4. Nevermore

Moriarty.

That was all it took for John’s world to come crashing down around his ears. To cause Sherlock to leap from the roof of St. Bart’s.  
“He doesn’t know the truth about you, does he?” John had asked after their poolside encounter with the master criminal.  
“No, I don’t think so.” Sherlock had said distractedly as he paced back and forth, hands steeples under his chin. He stopped and looked seriously at John. “That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.”  
How right he had been.  


John felt empty, hollow. Now that Sherlock was gone he truly realised how much he had needed him, how much he had relied on him. Whenever he heard a crow’s call walking down the street he turned, heart thudding, only to bitterly discover that it was only an ordinary rook or jackdaw. He didn’t even do that as much anymore, he told himself that if (even saying “if” seemed ridiculous, yet he couldn’t completely stop doing that either) he heard Sherlock’s caw again he would recognise it at once.  
He had been angry initially, with himself, with Sherlock, with the world at large. Mycroft had borne the brunt of it when he had visited in the early days after Sherlock’s death.  
“HE COULD HEAL HIMSELF!” John had shouted when Mycroft entered, it had felt so good to get those particular thoughts out in the open. “WHY DIDN’T HE?”  
“John…”  
“AND YOU!” John had roared, rounding on Mycroft, who looked like he was seriously regretting his decision to come. “YOU LET MORIARTY GO! GAVE HIM INFORMATION THAT HE USED AGAINST HIM! YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HIM!” Spent and trembling, John all but collapsed into his chair.  
“I cannot express how sorry I am,” Mycroft had said, keeping his distance in case John decided to physically attack him next. “But even if I had been there, I couldn’t have saved him, he died on impact. I don’t have the power to bring back the dead.”  
John, shuddering at the abruptness of Sherlock’s passing, said in a small voice, “He was immortal, how could he have died?” It was a stupid question, he thought, but one he couldn’t ask anyone else.  
“We may live for eons, but we are not invulnerable.” Mycroft said quietly before turning to go. “Let me know if I can be of any assistance. I truly am sorry.” He left, leaving John in his too quiet, too Sherlock-free flat.

Morgrim still turned up occasionally, and would sit either next to John or on his knee. Never on his shoulder. John would talk to her and though he couldn’t understand her, it was still some comfort just to sit in her company and stroke her feathers without really seeing them.  
At the funeral, John had seen a flock of crows, mostly rooks but with a few ravens, magpies, jackdaws and hooded crows scattered among them, perched in the trees surrounding the grave, They had been calling to one another, but all had fallen silent when the coffin made its slow way towards them and remained so until the end of the service when they had taken flight as one. Some would have thought it grim, macabre, but John thought it fitting. A murder of crows paying their final respects, he thought Sherlock would have liked that.

But the recurrent nightmares were by far the worst. They had changed too. Instead of Afghanistan, John relived Sherlock’s final moments over and over again, his coat billowing around him like the wings he possessed but hadn’t used as he plummeted to the ground. Sometimes he transformed just before or midway through his fall, but the result was always the same.  
As John woke, gasping, from his latest night terror, an unwelcome line of poetry arose unbidden: _“And quoth the raven, nevermore.”_ It had been a private joke between them, one that had caused him to smile once. Now he rolled over with a strangled sob, clutching the hammer amulet that he couldn’t bear to remove from around his neck.  
Nevermore would he tell Sherlock off for keeping his experiments in the fridge.  
Nevermore would he accompany Sherlock on a case or be soothed to sleep by the sound of his violin.  
Nevermore would Sherlock take his place on John’s shoulder and watch him update his blog (occasionally pointing out errors, grammatical or otherwise) or read or watch telly with him.

Legend has it that if the ravens ever left the Tower of London England would fall. For John, only one raven had to leave for that to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the Reichenbach emotional trauma, this time with mythical undertones. I noticed a few tiny errors (spaces where there shouldn't be, no italics where there should be, etc) so I went back and fixed them, in case any of you are picky. Please let me know if I've missed any.  
> The quote is from _The Raven_ by Edgar Allen Poe.


	5. I Believe In Sherlock Holmes

Two years.

Two years to the day since Sherlock had died. John was sitting outside in the cool early morning breeze, thinking. He did a lot of that lately. He had improved dramatically since meeting Mary, but she still couldn’t fill the raven-shaped gap in his life completely. And to make matters worse, his nightmares had returned after a brief remission. It was the latest one that had driven him outside in a bid to escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere that seemed to trap him. Pulling his coat around him, he smiled as a familiar silhouette alighted on his garden fence.

“Hello Morgrim.”

She flew down to his feet and looked up at him, cawing softly. “Do you miss him too?” he asked. Morgrim tilted her head to one side and croaked. “Me too.” John sighed as he rubbed the almost-invisible scar on his thumb, remembering how he had gotten it. He should go to the grave today. 

_“Shit.”_  
_John cursed as he examined the cut on his thumb. Typical. And highly ironic, he was trained as a surgeon, how stupid of him to cut himself when trying to cook for once. Staunching the bleeding with a piece of kitchen towel, he tried to rummage in the cupboards for the first aid kit while trying to keep it in place._  
_“What did you do?”_  
_John jumped “You need to stop sneaking up on me like that.” Sherlock ignored him and examined his injured hand. “It’s fine, Sherlock, I am a doctor.”_  
_“I can fix it for you, if you like.”_  
_John stopped trying to find the kit, Sherlock had probably moved it anyway to make room for more science equipment. “Really?”_  
_“Of course I can.” Sherlock huffed, removing the blood-spotted paper and throwing it on to the table. He applied light pressure to John’s thumb and concentrated. John watched in amazement as his skin glowed blue and grew warm. After a few seconds the glow faded and Sherlock let go. John stared. The cut had healed completely with only a small scar and some dried blood to show that it had ever been there._  
_“The scar should fade,” Sherlock said, washing John’s blood off his hands “It generally does for small injuries.”_  
_“That was incredible.”_  
_Sherlock smiled slightly. “I can only heal physical damage I’m afraid, you’re stuck treating anything else.”_  
_“That’s fine by me, I’d be out of the job otherwise. Why did Mycroft hum and you didn’t?”_  
_“It aids concentration, particularly if the wound is more extensive.” Sherlock said as he finished drying his hands. “Though maybe I should start doing it all the time for the dramatic effect.”_  
_“No.” John said firmly, pointing the knife at him as he resumed his more careful chopping. “You don’t need to be any more dramatic.”_

It was on his way to the graveyard when a large raven dropped out of the sky in front of him, causing him to stop in his tracks. The raven flapped its wings. “Not dead!” It squawked, “Not dead! Not dead! Not dead!”

John froze. “What do you mean?” He whispered urgently “’Not dead’?” The raven, if possible, seemed to get even more excited, repeating its message over and over, so much so that other pedestrians were starting to stare.

“There he is!”

A large, older man jogged up and, panting, scooped up the raven, who seemingly undeterred, continued to speak. “He’s from the Tower,” the man said to John, transferring the raven to a cat carrier that his colleague had just presented him with. “Decided to go on walkabout. You kept very calm, if I may say so.”

“My friend used to work with birds, sorry I must go.” John said as he walked quickly away before he could be interrogated as to what exactly his friend did. Like anyone would believe him anyway. 

His mind was racing. Sherlock had told him that although corvids could understand human speech they had difficulty using it themselves, but were excellent mimics. But where had that raven learned the phrase? Was it a coincidence that he was from the Tower and had delivered his message, such as it was, to John? He knew what Sherlock would say to that.

Eventually he found himself standing at Sherlock’s plot. John sighed as he looked down at the neat gold letters. He thought it would get easier with time, but it hadn’t, not really. John steeled himself and spoke. “Two years Sherlock, and I know I’ve said it all before, but,” John paused, why was this still difficult? But before he could go on he heard a familiar voice speak softly behind him.

“I heard you.”

John whirled around. Sherlock stood behind him, solemn and tired-looking, but very much alive. John thought his heart had stopped, he took several deep breaths to steady himself. “Sherlock? How? You, you were dead!”

“John, I-“ But John punched him, hard, before he could finish. Breathing heavily, John watched with uncharacteristic satisfaction as Sherlock got to his feet, rubbing his cheek. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“You better have a good excuse,” John growled “How the Hell could you do that to us, to me?” He knew he sounded petty, but right now he didn’t care.

“I’ll explain everything, but not here.”

“Why?” John glared at him and folded his arms.

“In case we’re overheard.”

“Overheard!” John shouted “No-one’s around!”

“Yes, but sound carries well here, I could hear you from over there.” Sherlock said with the barest hint of impatience in his voice as he gestured to the spot where he had watched his own funeral two years before. “If we could just go back to the flat…”

John laughed humorously. “The flat? Is this just some kind of game to you? Do you think that you can just waltz back into my life after two years? Oh, but to you two years isn’t a long time is it? Well, it was for me Sherlock, it was a long bloody time for me because I’m mortal, but obviously that didn’t occur to you!”

“John, please.”

“Why? Give me one good reason why I should come with you.”

“Because you were the one who ensured I didn’t die on that pavement two years ago.”

John stared at him in shock. “What?”

“I will tell you everything, but not here.”

John continued to stare at him, trying to resist the urge to punch him again, then he huffed. 

“Fine.”

*****

The atmosphere in the cab to Baker Street was icy. John stared resolutely out the window while Sherlock shot him occasional nervous glances. “Where’s Mrs. Hudson?” John broke the silence as they walked up the stairs.  
“With Mycroft. He’ll explain to her that I’m back.”

“Didn’t want to do it yourself?” John snapped, part of him wincing, it shouldn’t be like this, not when he had wanted this for so long. Sherlock turned to him, saying flatly, “I wanted to talk to you first.” He continued into the flat and sat in his chair. John shut the door and stiffly sat in his.

“Start talking,” He demanded “How did I keep you alive?”

Sherlock laced his fingers together. “John, firstly, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but I had to.”

“ _Had_ to?”

Sherlock looked mildly irritated at being interrupted and the sight of the familiar expression caused a brief spark of happiness to flare in John’s chest despite himself. “Yes, had to, because I was given no other option. Moriarty gave me a choice, kill myself or watch three of the people I cared most about die.” He looked pointedly at John. “You, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.”

John, pale, stammered, “But why two years? Moriarty was dead.”

“His web wasn’t. I had to dismantle it. That’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t, couldn’t, contact you because I was afraid I’d put you in danger.”

John leaned back into the chair, trying to make sense of his emotions. “I met a raven earlier,” he said, “Who was saying “not dead” over and over.”

“I didn’t arrange that, he must have heard and become over-excited. They all know who you are.”

John felt his earlier anger surge. “They knew?”

“Only in the past few days, the only raven that knew was Mycroft.”

John sighed. “Who else?”

“Molly, to fake the records.”

John looked at him in confusion. “But, all the people there? Were they not in on it to help you do whatever it was you did?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I _did_ jump and I _did_ hit the ground. In your stories, in our histories, immortal beings are sometimes reborn. If our spirit and will to live is strong enough, and provided that someone is able to perform the necessary magic in time, our life-force, soul, whatever you want to call it, stays in the land of the living until our body is healed. This needs to happen quickly, as it takes a tremendous amount of will power to hang around.” He looked seriously at John.

“I _did_ die when I hit the pavement. I just didn’t go very far. Mycroft was waiting in Bart’s to heal my body. John, I barely made it.” He looked exhausted as he remembered. “I was confined to bed rest for days, one of the first times I got up was to see you in the graveyard before I left.”

“How did I save you?” John leaned forward, unable to deny his curiosity.

“What did I tell you helped sustain the gods?”

John thought for a moment. “Belief?”

Sherlock nodded. “What neither Mycroft nor myself realised was that to successfully live again, someone needs to have complete faith in you. And that person wasn’t Mycroft, as you’d expect, but you.”

“What?” John breathed. “How could it bypass Mycroft?”

Sherlock shook his head. “We don’t know. This is deep, ancient magic that isn’t yet, and probably never will be, fully understood. Don’t worry, Mycroft isn’t offended.” Sherlock grinned, but John didn’t return it.

“But how does it work?”

Sherlock’s grin faltered. “Mycroft and I have been aware of the power of belief for years. We are still part of the old legends, the fact that they are still told today and that they are in people’s imaginations has helped to keep us alive and well, that as well as the reputations that we’ve built for ourselves as humans. But it’s not something we actively feel. It’s a given, like the fact that my heart beats or my lungs work. But this,” Sherlock shook his head slightly.  
“This I felt as soon as I woke up. For those first few days it was a lifeline tying me to, well, life. It became less intense after that but I still feel it. And it’s you, John. It’s your faith and trust in me, your belief that I wasn’t a fake that allowed me to come back.”

John was stunned, simply put.

“When I was away,” Sherlock went on cautiously, “I heard you. I heard you talk to me. I thought I was going mad until Mycroft realised that I was hearing what you said at my grave. That’s where you went, isn’t it, whenever you spoke aloud to me?”

John nodded numbly, he supposed he should be furious that Mycroft had been spying on him but then again, Mycroft had been watching and listening to others for over a thousand years, it was probably a hard habit to break.

“You said something else too, and then others started, but you were always the loudest. And that proved without a doubt what the connection was.”

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes.” John whispered. How many times had he thought it, said it, in anger to others sometimes? Sherlock nodded.

“Can you forgive me? For all the hurt that I’ve caused you? And please know that the past two years have been the longest in my very long life.”

John sighed. “I asked you not to be dead, for one more miracle.”

“I heard you, every time.” Sherlock said quietly. “I’m sorry I took so long, but Moriarty’s web had to be stopped.”

John blinked back the moisture threatening to spill from his eyes and looked into Sherlock’s quietly pleading face. Was it his imagination or was there a thin film of tears in his eyes too?

“You are the best and the wisest man, raven,” (As John corrected himself he thought he saw Sherlock’s mouth lift at the corners.) “And of course, I forgive you.”

Sherlock seemed to sag with relief. “Thank you John.” It was the most sincere thank you John had ever heard from anyone, never mind from Sherlock.

“Just promise me,” John said as they stood up, “That you’ll never do that to me again.”

Sherlock looked grave. “I promise, I’m not sure if I could. As long as you get rid of that ridiculous moustache. You look older than I am.”

John smiled for the first time that day. “I always look older than you do.”

“No I mean that you look like the one who should be over two thousand years old.”

“Mary, you need to meet her, likes it.”

“John, despite never having met the woman, I know that she doesn’t like it.”

John couldn’t help it, he laughed, and it felt like his first proper laugh in two years. Sherlock grinned.

“Huginn.”

Sherlock looked at John in surprise as he tapped his shoulder. “You’ve gone from punching me to offering me your shoulder.” He sounded utterly perplexed.

“Well, frankly I’m still quite pissed with you, but I actually missed you sitting there passing comments about everything and everyone. Although it was nice to type without you correcting my spelling for a change.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before transforming and flying to John’s shoulder. “I only corrected you when needed.”

John smiled as he took in the sight of Sherlock on his shoulder, thinner and slightly more bedraggled than before maybe, but it was a sight that he had never thought he would see again. He was sure that there would be challenges ahead, and he was still angry with him, but for now John was content to just feel Sherlock’s familiar weight on his shoulder, something that had been missing for two years. He had his friend back, and first and foremost he was happy about it.

Sherlock cawed softly and gently squeezed John’s shoulder, as if to reassure himself that John was here, John who had saved his life in so, so many ways and who he never wanted to leave again if he could help it.

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this random idea of mine.
> 
> I'm not quite done with this universe yet, I don't think, so keep an eye out for either a sequel or a oneshot, maybe both. All relevant works will be tagged as "Thought and Memory" or "Raven!Sherlock".


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